


Perfect Shadows

by GoddessOfTechnology



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Delirium, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Nightmares, Thunderstorms, basically angst followed by friendship and bonding, some sickness but not enough to be a sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfTechnology/pseuds/GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: The mass kidnapping of Daventry’s citizens, while ultimately without casualties, still comes with consequences. For King Graham, those consequences manifest in the form of a paralyzing fear of thunderstorms.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Perfect Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of a collab between myself and [gerbiloftriumph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilofTriumph)!! Check out their awesome art here: https://gerbiloftriumph.tumblr.com/post/630091390656954368/lightning-blazes-in-the-window-panes-searing
> 
> credit to [CaptMickey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptMickey) for the original idea~
> 
> Thank you to [awesomenarwhal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeNarwhal) for beta reading <3

It's raining when he's captured. 

Not just raining - _storming_. A thunderstorm that claws at the skies like a restless tiger. It’s not yet formidable but it’s gaining strength by the minute - a lashing of rain that grows ever more uncontrolled, a whistle in the trees that tell of mounting winds. 

It’s a warning of approaching violence. An omen of sorts, perhaps, but if so then Graham fails to heed it. 

Strong words have a tendency to rankle, to nag, to gnaw at the edges of your brain. It's easy to get lost in thought, to lose some of your powers of perception. To be less alert, less wary, less _careful_.

As such, Graham wanders into the village, alone and upset and seeking comfort, making an automatic beeline for the bakery; he doesn’t notice the scrabbling of small feet on roof tiles, the sense of a dozen pairs of eyes watching him. Graham was a knight before he became a king, but emotions can get the better of anyone.

He can’t ignore, however, the empty shops and broken windows, the darkness and the cold, the peculiar state of the town - depressed, deserted. The sight comes with a horrible creeping feeling of _wrongness_. For a moment he stares, confused and concerned, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing, trying to quell his rising apprehension. 

The sound of a flute, high and bright and loud, pierces through the silence and his thoughts. He whirls, breath catching in his throat, shattered shops momentarily forgotten, and spots a goblin balanced on one of the rooftops. There are more, he realizes, now that he's paying attention. He can hear the rasping of stone armor from every direction, surrounding him, cornering him.

Graham was a knight before he became a king - he knows the sharp taste of approaching danger. It's instinct, habit hammered into muscle memory, to reach for a weapon. To find nothing - no dagger, no bow, no arrows slipped into the folds of his cape, nothing but fabric - is not, and his heart leaps into his throat as his fingers clutch at empty air. 

He doesn’t have the time to curse his own stupidity. The goblins pounce before he gets the chance.

-

It’s not a fair fight. Not much of a fight at all, to be truthful. Graham is unarmed and alone and taken half by surprise, and the goblins have spears and numbers and planning on their side. They won the fight before it even began. 

He makes some token protests, of course: threatens once or twice, throws an occasional wild punch and bruises his knuckles on unyielding armor. But it’s a hopeless struggle, and in the end he is theirs to do what they please with.

They surround him on all sides, force him down on his knees at spearpoint. The harsh edges of the cobblestone street dig into his knees as coarse rope is wound tight around his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides, _trapping_ him. 

(He tries, once, in a flurry of fear and defiance, to kick out at one of them. Another one, faceless, terrifying, retaliates by jamming a spear under his chin with just a little too much enthusiasm. Graham abruptly freezes, fear pounding in his chest, as the spear lingers too close to his jugular. 

The goblin's hands aren't steady. The sharp metal edge drags against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood - an accident, perhaps, but an effective one. A reminder that he doesn’t have any room to object.

He flinches. Shivers. Yields, and doesn't struggle again)

The storm is picking up, he notes through the haze of panic - the rain now lashes at his skin, rainwater dripping off his clothes in rivulets. The sky ignites with lightning, bright and white and brilliant, as his captors manhandle him onto a soaked, tattered mattress, their hands hard and bruising and impossible to disobey. Thunder gnaws at their heels as they gather around him, as they lift the mattress onto their shoulders, like so many little coffin-bearers. 

They speed down the road with their cargo, a dozen feet trodding through the rainwater - _splish splash splish splash_. The sound easily drowns out his own ragged, panicked breathing, his quiet hisses of pain, washing them away as if they never existed. 

Later, he won't be able to remember how long they traveled - the world around him slowly dissolves into distant, disconnected colors and sounds, his own thrumming fear numbing his senses. He watches the landscape pass by him without truly seeing anything, the trees going by in a blur. The only thing that feels real, that tells him this isn’t just some horribly vivid dream, is the bruisingly-tight grip two goblins have on his shoulders, keeping him from toppling off the mattress.

He doesn't notice the approaching cave entrance until the world shifts from blurry trees to equally blurry stone walls. And then he blinks and they're inside, deep in the caves and heading deeper, going down, down, down away from the surface and the light, away from home and safety.

-

The cell the goblins lock him in is a grim affair. Buried in cloying shadows, half-flooded with rainwater, the air sharp with a _chill_ that bites through his soaked clothing. The cold in the room is like the inside of an aged crypt - lifeless, dead, sour - and equally foreboding. 

(It's persistent and never-ceasing, the cold, worming through his clothes and nipping at his bones, sparking fits of shivering. The shivering never stops, not completely - it eases as his clothing dries, but by then the cold is deeply ingrained in his muscles, and he can’t seem to get warm again. 

[In gradual increments, so slow he barely notices, his fingers turn stiff, numb; he wrings his hands until they prickle and itch, until his knuckles are rubbed red, until his joints crack almost painfully])

But worse than the cold, worse than the dark and the hunger and how very, very trapped and alone he is, how much he just wants to go _home_ , is the silence. The near-perfect, overly loud silence, unnoticeable at first but gradually creeping closer, that presses against his skin with a suffocating weight. 

Sometimes it's interrupted by a salamander plodding through a puddle, the goblins bickering outside, the growling of whatever horrible creature resides in the cell next door. But these interruptions are few and far between - Graham can easily drift alone in complete silence if he wants, can spend hours, days hearing nothing but his own breathing. 

It's oppressive in a new and horrible way - he's used to action, to noise and colors and adrenaline, and this never-ending stillness is drowning him. As if the longer he stays here the further he strays from reality, as if the prospect of home and safety is slipping away like sand between his fingers. In the moments between sleep and wakefulness, he half-fancies there isn’t any home to return to, not anymore - just this cold, dark, quiet cell, from now unto eternity.

It's unbearable. He tries pacing, to fill the silence, but the echo of his own footsteps feels too dead, too vacant. Talking to himself has far better success. There's something oddly comforting about talking, about his own voice bouncing off the stone walls. Less empty, less like he's sinking into some horrible abyss where time ceases to exist - he can't measure the minutes or the days, but he _can_ measure the words he speaks, and that is something to cling to. 

And. It's water, mostly, that trickles down into his cell, carried by a hundred tiny cracks in the soil - but sometimes, sound does as well. When talking to himself isn't enough to keep him grounded, he can stay very quiet and very still, and if he's lucky he can hear the faintest of rumbling from the surface, the rumbling of thunder. 

-

(It was comforting, at the time, the thunder - something that tied him to home, that reminded him there was more than an inescapable, seemingly endless cell. But later, he'll look back and wonder how that comfort translated into _fear_. And he'll realize that, really, the fear was always present, humming quietly in the background, seeping into everything around him)

~°~

After they're set free, after they return to safety, are good days. Freedom feels like flaming fireplaces and warm food and hot tea, and the heavy chains of his responsibilities fade alongside the hunger that gnawed at his stomach and the never ending cold that settled in his bones. His friends are safe - that's the important part. They're safe and alive. 

But they are nervous days as well. Because it's one thing to be safe, and quite another to _feel_ safe. The memories of unyielding bars and surly goblin guards and wickedly sharp spears are too recent for most, and nearly everyone is jumpy and nervous and on edge. Graham catches himself flinching at sharp movements, at unexpected noises; finds himself watching shadowed corners and corridors for anything that shouldn't be there.

The guards have taken their security to an almost obsessive degree - at any given moment, Graham can look around him and spot a guard subtly (not subtly at all) keeping an eye on him. Like they expect him to vanish into smoke the moment they turn their backs. He'd feel suffocated under normal circumstances, and he'll certainly tell them off if this continues much longer. But for now, he supposes he doesn't mind it. 

(Safety is a difficult feeling to come by, these days. Not being alone helps)

-

Not much later, illness comes creeping in, manifesting in a harsh, persistent cough, a sore throat, a nagging headache. He's dismayed but not particularly surprised - if he thinks about it, he could trace its origins back to the cell, to the odd, heavy weight in his chest that settled in his lungs like pooled rainwater. Now, it's like that weight is moldering, spreading. Crawling into his throat and brain and muscles and bones. Festering. 

He underestimates it. 

"I'm fine," he says to anyone who looks his way, and the guards accept it, seemingly. That's fine. It's just a cold, he thinks - a few days of rest and warmth will take care of it. It’s almost natural considering the cell’s appalling conditions.

Except rest and warmth doesn't take care of it. It almost seems to get worse the longer it's left unattended. He ignores it, ignores the headaches and the aching in his throat and in his chest and in his muscles, and he keeps ignoring it until he _can't_.

It was slow, at first. But Graham slips and falls and slides into illness, faster and faster until he's in free fall, and then the castle guards have a problem of a different sort on their hands.

-

It’s a confusing wash of coughing, of sleep, of fever-spun nightmares. Graham can’t separate the days from each other. Most of the time he sleeps, but sometimes Muriel or one of the guards forces tea or medicine down his throat - small snatches of awareness littered amongst senselessness.

The nightmares are terrible, scorched things. Confused images of being alone and trapped in the cold and the dark, mingled with dragon fire and friends dissolving into ashes. They melt and ooze and bleed into reality until all he sees is fire, burning fire and darkness.

Once, he wakes up in the middle of the night to flashes of lightning in the sky and thunder purring in his ear, and it’s all _too much_. His heart is racing and he can’t think and he’s boiling under the blanket (no, the cloak, there is no blanket in the cell) and he’s going to _scream_ if he stays here another moment, he’s going to -

Time flickers, individual moments blurring and melting into a meaningless soup. One moment he’s crawling out of bed, choking down the coughing; the next, he’s wandering alone in some shadowed corridor, unsure where he is. It’s cold enough here that he can’t stop shivering, but his thoughts burn hot with fever, as wavering and inconsistent as candle-flame, mostly confused impulses to run, to flee. 

Still shivering, he stumbles down another corridor. A wave of dizziness washes over him and he nearly falls, barely catching himself on the wall. He doesn’t know where he’s going - none of these paths seem familiar to him, although he must have wandered down the prison paths a hundred times. 

And it might be the reasonable thing to turn back, but he’s trapped and surrounded by stone and the thunderstorm is as loud as ever and he wants _out_. Out of this prison, out of this cell. The need for escape itches under his skin and claws at his chest, and he follows it blindly.

Lightning blazes in the window panes, searing bright, and he hastens. Foolish. He turns a corner (too fast, too reckless, you should know _better_ than to rush ahead without looking) and catches a sense of _movement_ in the shadows, hovering just at the corners of his vision, dark and menacing. 

It's almost like his muscles lock into place - he freezes, breath quickening, unsure whether to remain still so he can’t be seen, or break his cover and flee. 

It, whatever it is, seems to move again. Too close, there’s no way he’s hidden, not even with the shadows providing cover. He can’t make out what it is, can’t see it well enough with his vision swimming so badly, but he knows, knows with a terrible instinct that shrieks _goblin_.

(The castle floor is dry stone under his bare feet, but he can almost feel the village cobblestones, slippery with rain)

Is it just one? Are there more? He can't see any spears, but the taste of sharp metal still hums in the air. Perhaps he's just imagining it, or perhaps they'll pounce on him at any moment. Finish the job they started. Cut his throat for _real_ this time, instead of a harmless glancing slice. 

Or maybe they'll take a less direct route. Lock him away again, this time careful to throw away the key. Bind him with chains, even - you can never be too careful. If they tied his hands behind his back he'd never be able to pick the lock. 

(He'd be well and truly lost then, wouldn't he? Lost forever. Perhaps someone would wander in those caves years later, some adventurer or other, and find that damp, cold cell with a damp, cold skeleton inside it, yellow mold growing in the spaces between its bones-)

“Sire?”

Graham whirls around, staggers, nearly - _doesn’t_ \- fall. 

It’s Kyle and Larry, looking as concerned as one could in full armor. Graham stares at them, uncomprehending. They shouldn’t be here, he thinks. They’ll be found. He tries to say as much but his voice refuses to function - his mouth moves but no sound comes out.

"Sire?" That's Larry, worry laced into his tone. "What are you doing out of bed?"

That’s a silly question. He has places to be, things to do, people to help. Speaking isn’t an option, so he makes an impatient sort of gesture. 

Kyle doesn’t seem to understand. “Where do you want to go?”

It takes a moment to force his vocal chords to work properly. “Outside,” he finally manages to say, and is surprised how hoarse he sounds, how much it hurts just to say one word. Stars, he sounds like he’s dying. 

Kyle pauses. “Sire. It’s pouring out.” 

Is it? Oh. It is. He didn’t notice before, but rain is lashing at the windows like some wild raging creature, frenzied and violent.

Somehow, the thunder made more of an impression.

“We should get him back to bed,” Larry mutters, worried. Kyle nods and places a hand on Graham’s shoulder - cold, heavy, armor, _no_ \- and Graham stiffens before he can stop himself, some shadowed, feverish part of him half-expecting the friendly hand to dig punishingly into his skin, leaving dark gauntlet-shaped bruises behind. 

If Kyle notices, he doesn’t show it - just pushes Graham down the corridor as respectfully as possible. Graham follows mindlessly, allowing Kyle to lead him where he pleases, while Larry follows close on their heels.

Time flickers once again - the next moment they're folding him into bed. There’s a commotion of sorts - he thinks he hears No1 saying something (where did he come from?), and a voice he recognizes as Muriel’s (is she _safe_ -) but the words are diluted and blurry and indistinct, and all he can make out is a general sense of annoyance layered over concern.

Graham would say something, ask what’s happening, but before he can do so someone is helping him drink another cup of medicine. His eyes almost seem to close of their own volition - he slips back into sleep between one fractured thought and the next.

(This time, his nightmares are laced with the rumbling of thunder)

-

(It takes another day before his fever breaks. Two days before he can sit up. Six more days before he’s allowed out of bed, staggering short distances, a guard always at his heels.

He walks outside in the courtyard, slow, careful, and the skies are clear but the air is still crisp with recent rain, with the ghosts of past dangers)

~°~

It takes time for him to heal. The bruises and cuts and scrapes clear up a little more with each passing day, alongside the sickness that settled in his lungs. 

The fear takes...longer, to go away. 

Bit by bit, the guards relax, but Graham still feels strained and on edge, like a clockwork toy wound almost to breaking point. The nightmares don't stop and neither does the feeling of something hanging over him, a sword dangling just above his neck: _one day they'll find me, and then I won't be able to leave again._

Opening diplomatic talks with the goblins, to make sure nothing like this ever happens again, helps a little. But it's not _enough_ , somehow. Because at the heart of it, it's not the goblins themselves he's afraid of, but being trapped and starved and lost again.

It's easy, almost, to lose himself in work. If he works, he doesn't think about things stealing him away overnight. There's just a never-ending stream of addenda to memorize and meetings to attend and decrees to approve or reject or edit, and as mind numbing as it might seem, it's better than the fear. 

He doesn't even really realize what he's doing, until No1 sets him down one day and tells him to _relax_ , using a respectful yet 'please listen to me for the love of the gods' sort of tone. 

Graham tries, after that. Tries to loosen up, just a little. It's difficult, but it slowly gets better with time. The flinching stops (mostly), as do the nightmares (as much as they ever did, at least). 

And after a while, after months of settling, of learning to feel safe again, he truly believes that he's gotten over the worst of it. That he can put this horrible experience behind him once and for all. 

He's right, but only partially. For, months later, he's woken by a rather well-worn nightmare.

-

He’s kneeling in absolute darkness, hard cobblestones underneath him, half-slumped over. Why or how he’s here he can’t remember, but the fear that shivers under his skin is familiar, too familiar - he _needs_ to leave, he _has_ to.

He tries to move, to stand, and is met with resistance. To his horror, they’re _ropes_ : ropes biting harshly into his wrists, arms, shoulders, ropes wrapped tight around his ribs. His arms are pinned to his sides, his wrists bound to each other and tied behind his back, he can’t _move_ -

His first instinct is to try to claw his way free, but the ropes refuse to loosen. On the contrary, they _tighten_ , more and more and more until they're so tight around his chest that he can barely breathe, until his heart is beating frantically against the unyielding constriction.

He's alone and helpless and a horrible, bone-deep _cold_ is slowly seeping into his skin, and he knows with all the surety that dream-logic brings that something horrible will happen to him if he doesn't free himself, _soon_. But his panicked struggles are achieving absolutely nothing, and the cold is advancing at an alarming pace, and he can’t - he can’t _move_ , he can’t get free, maybe if he could see he could find something to help him get free, a fallen piece of broken glass or an abandoned rusted spearhead, but the darkness is too perfect and the cold isn’t fading and-

In a desperate move, he throws back his head and screams for help. Or tries to. The attempt is unexpectedly miserable, the sound choking somewhere inside his throat and coming out as a raspy whisper, barely audible. 

Through the rising panic in his chest he tries again, and again, and each time the sound is strangled, distorted, his voice high and weak and hoarse and utterly useless. Like he’s lost his voice to illness. 

No one could possibly hear him, help him, not if he can't even muster the ability to _scream_. 

The cold inches further under his skin, sinking its teeth into his muscles. And then without warning the ground vanishes underneath him, cobblestones replaced with empty void, and he's falling, falling, falling into ever-increasing darkness, silence, where no one will ever be able to find him again, where he'll be lost forever -

-

Graham wakes up shaking, scared, confused, the beginnings of a scream rasping at the back of his throat. He flinches and cowers and swallows the sound, breathes too-fast through his teeth, still half-lost in the nightmare. It's dark, and that sends a shiver down his spine, but he's warm and he isn't falling and there are no ropes binding him, and that's. That's good, he thinks. He clings to those facts like a lifeline, and does his best to breathe. 

It takes him several moments to realize where he is - the royal bedroom, snug in bed, nowhere close to a goblin cell. He can hear embers crackling in the fireplace and rain lashing against the windows - calming sounds, normally, sounds of home. 

He should feel safe, secure. Not much can harm him here, and the dark days when he was still scared of his own shadows are behind him. But there's still fear that has him trembling, and he can't understand _why_ \- 

And then thunder rumbles in the distance, low and menacing, and he realizes just what exactly he's afraid of.

A storm, a thunderstorm. It must have started during the night, while he was asleep. Snuck up on him, so to speak. 

And it _terrifies_ him, like shadows and swift movements and small spaces used to, after the kidnapping. A freezing, shivery sort of fear that screams of _danger_ , as senseless as it is convincing. 

(Were he more in possession of himself, he might feel embarrassed. A proper king isn't afraid of thunderstorms, after all. But Graham is too frightened to be self-conscious, shivers of panic bubbling under his skin, unable to think past the shrieking of fear in his brain)

…It's too dark in the room. Too closed. There could be things hiding in the shadows. He wants the darkness _gone_. 

He remembers, as if in a dream, that the royal bedroom has candles littered about the room, unlit. 

He stumbles out of bed and gropes blindly at the bedside table for a box of matches. His fingers tremble as he strikes one - once, twice, thrice, with no success. It’s on the fourth try that the match finally lights with a weak, sputtering flame that glows brightly in the darkness.

With how badly his hands are shaking, it's inevitable that he singes his fingertips a few times, burnt by the steadily-descending flame. But he doesn’t stop lighting candles, one after another, until there are several dozen flickering flames littered about the room, comforting shadows dancing on the walls. 

Like this, with every corner of the room illuminated, with nothing able to hide in the darkness, he feels just a little safer. 

Then there's another flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder, and the feeling dissipates like smoke. 

Trembling, he curls up in bed - his hand falls on a corner of one of the blankets. He hesitates, a little, but...there's no one to see him, and the storm still rages outside, violent and loud and frightening. No one would know how childishly he's behaving. 

With a shaky sigh, heart still beating frantically, the king of Daventry gathers one of the blankets closer, wrapping it around his shoulders like a fluffy cloak. The warmth is all-encompassing and immediately comforting, and though he still shivers a bit, it does help. Immensely so. 

(There's no spear being held to his back, no hard cobblestones underneath him, no cold, damp cell or friends depending on him for survival. Just warmth from all sides. 

[Warmth is _safe_ ])

Falling asleep while the candles are still lit would be a foolish idea - the risk of a fire is far too great. But somehow, Graham doesn’t think he needs to worry about that: he doubts he’ll be sleeping any longer tonight.

-

He's right. Graham remains wide awake, too keyed up to sleep, and watches the flashes of lightning that sear across his vision again and again and again until he's nearly dizzy. And when the thunder ceases he sits and shivers and still doesn't sleep until morning.

He stumbles out of bed the next morning exhausted, bleary-eyed. No1 side-eyes him but says nothing, just hovers close at hand in case he's needed. No3 plies him with tea. He nods at them both, grateful, and all the while his mind works, trying to make sense of what happened the previous night. 

During the storm, his fear numbed his senses, dulling whatever embarrassment he may have felt. But now, with the storm far on the horizon and the fear finally fading, those feelings come flooding back in.

Because. Thunderstorms. 

...He's afraid of _thunderstorms_. 

That's ridiculous. _Ridiculous_. What sort of king is afraid of thunderstorms? What sort of king hides under the covers in fear? No king Graham has heard of, to be sure, and surely it must mean he isn't...isn’t brave enough, _good enough_ , if he's terrified of something as inconsequential as _this_ -

-

( _But I'm a king,_ he later tries to tell himself. _Not a god. I'm human. It's. It's okay to be afraid._

The statement may be true, but the words still ring empty with a hollow sort of falsehood)

~°~

A part of him hopes that it will just go away, without further prompting. That one day he'll wake up and he'll be fine again. Like this is just some bad dream that will soon crumble into dust.

But it remains stubbornly real. Some of his old fear has returned, seeping into his skin even when the skies are clear and free of storm clouds, but the first grumbles of thunder in the distance are what makes him freeze up, what sets his heart fluttering madly in his chest. 

He starts getting nightmares again, starts to lose sleep. No1 says nothing but the disapproval wafts off of him in waves, No2 is anxious as ever, No4 makes pointed, unsubtle remarks about a healthy sleep schedule and the importance thereof. 

He ignores them all and struggles with his own inadequacy. It's ridiculous, and shameful, and completely unreasonable, and no amount of self-admonishments can make it _go away_. 

Still, he tries. And tries, and tries, to ignore it all, to pretend it doesn’t exist, and perhaps by doing so to make it true.

-

It takes a particularly violent storm - short as all thunderstorms are, but _loud_ \- before he caves. Because it rattles him so badly that he has to lock himself in his room before the guards notice - no way he can hide his nerves, his trembling, the way he flinches at every flash of lightning. 

He paces during the storm and for some time after it ends, going from one corner of the room to the other, lost in nervous thought. Because he might be stubborn, but he's not a _fool_ , and he can see that this... _situation_ is slipping out of his tenuous control. 

He's reached the point where he can no longer deny that he needs help. That he needs to talk to someone. Stars know who.

_Amaya_ , he thinks. It feels natural. For all her protests to the contrary, she's good at these kinds of conversations when she needs to be. 

He glances outside. It’s late, and dark, and the thought of going outside in this weather is enough to make his skin crawl. No, he can visit Amaya tomorrow morning. 

(Perhaps it will have stopped raining by then, and then he can be certain that she will _be_ there)

-

It's early in the morning and the air is still crisp with the recent rain. His boots are crusted with mud, the hem of his cloak slightly damp. But the forge is lit and Amaya is home, and that's the important part. 

(He didn’t even really realize how much he feared otherwise, until he saw the undamaged windows, saw her standing there safe and sound)

"You look awful," is the first sentence out of Amaya's mouth as he walks through the smithy door, and Graham would feel offended except that she probably has a point. Lack of sleep and the vestiges of irrational fear still dog his footsteps - he definitely doesn't look his best. 

Still, he levels her with a small glare, more for the principle of it than anything else. "That's not very polite."

"My apologies," Amaya drawls without hesitation, her tone as dry as burnt toast. "You look awful, _Your Majesty_."

He snorts in spite of himself. 

"Sit down," she says, pointing to a bench, before grabbing a knife and a small cloth. She sets to cleaning the knife with terrifying efficiency. "And explain."

He sits and spends a moment weighing his words, suddenly feeling ill at ease. _She'll judge you for this,_ whispers some part of him, the same part that whispers what a poor excuse for a king he is. _She'll mock you._

_Be quiet,_ he snaps back. 

"What would you do," he says at last, slowly, "if you were scared of something silly?"

Amaya barely pauses in her work. But she’s listening intently, he can tell from the way she's standing. "Define 'silly'."

Graham thinks a moment, pushing down the little flickers of shame. "Something that shouldn't scare you. Something that can't really hurt you."

"What, like spiders?"

Graham nearly laughs. "No, not like spiders."

(Fear of spiders is a phobia. Something that’s irrational in a rational manner. This is different)

Amaya doesn't speak, waiting for him to elaborate on his own. She's good at that, he's found. At knowing when to give him space, and when to poke and prod and nag him into cooperation. It's why he came to her in the first place.

(The thought is fleeting - _how did I find such good friends_ \- and it nearly strangles him)

"I'm scared of thunderstorms," he says, finally, a quiet admission under his blaring thoughts - _you're being ridiculous you're a coward what will she think of you and you dare call yourself a_ ** _king_**. "It...there was a storm, you know, when the goblins came. And I..."

Amaya doesn’t say a word, just cleans the knife and listens.

"I shouldn't be _like this_ ," he snarls, suddenly frustrated with himself and his stupid fears and his exhaustion and stress. "It's just a storm. It can't hurt me. I shouldn't be-"

"Fear is a natural response," Amaya interrupts, her tone...not soothing, exactly, because Amaya doesn't _do_ soothing, but. Level. Reliable. "Most would be just as rattled in your shoes. Stop beating yourself up over it."

And that's a strange statement indeed from the 'bravest person in Daventry,' and Graham can't help but be dubious. "How can you say that?" he asks, a little bitter. "You're not afraid of anything."

Amaya gets a strange expression on her face, an odd cross between flattered and awkward. She struggles briefly to find something to say. "...I'm afraid of plenty of things," she says at last, quietly, reluctantly. "Wedzel wolves, for one. Everyone's afraid of something."

She hesitates before she speaks again, her voice almost inaudible, her gaze distant, as if she were trying to separate herself from her own words. "I hate closed spaces, now. They didn't bother me before, but now I can't stand them. Can't stand the feeling of being _trapped_. You're not all that special, kid."

( _You’re not alone,_ she doesn’t say, but Graham can hear it in the spaces between her words)

"...I see," he says, after the silence stretches for several moments, punctuated only by the _swish-swish_ of the cloth along Amaya's blade. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"That's alright," she says. "I'm getting better about it, anyhow."

And _that_ sparks his curiosity. "What are you doing? To get better about it, I mean."

Amaya gives him a meaningful glance, absently twirling the knife. "Finding things that help, and doing them," she says, and there's a certain ruthlessness in her voice, like she took all of those things and bludgeoned her fear to death with them.

Somehow, Graham doesn't think that's far from the truth. 

(A part of him wishes he could do the same)

-

(He thanks her, of course - he might be a coward, but he’s at least a _polite_ coward. But after he bids her farewell and wanders out of the shop, confusion and doubt slowly seep in. It made sense, at the time, what she said, but...

As he walks, his feet taking him home, he goes over her words, trying to find the source of that confusion. _Things that help,_ she said, and he realizes that at the heart of it, such advice is vague at best and useless at worst - he’s not at all sure where to begin. _It's a puzzle_ , he tries to tell himself, but that brings him no nearer to a solution.

...He’s _tired_ , so tired of the fear, of being at the mercy of something as fickle as the weather. And he doesn’t know how or when it will end, this fear, whether simple time and patience will make it go away, or whether he needs to do something to get rid of it.

He doesn’t know where to take it from here, doesn’t know at all, and the thought sits leaden in his chest. Because some puzzles might seem unsolvable, but they _always_ have leads. Clues. You can be lost in a forest but there will still be a path under your feet. 

This time, there is no path, just empty space. And Graham feels deeply, unpleasantly lost)

~°~

There's a storm in the distance, nearing closer by the minute, and Graham isn't sure whether to return to the castle or not. 

(The choice should be obvious - really, where else could he go. It should be obvious, and it isn't, for reasons he can't place. His hands are shaking and fear is crawling out of the dark recesses of his mind, and still he stays, frozen, on the paths meant to lead him home)

His gaze is fixed on the sky, on the curdling storm clouds - the same impulse that has you poking at a still-healing bruise. He doesn't notice the figure sidling up beside him. His name is called, unexpected, and he jumps, whirls, heart hammering in his throat.

It's Acorn, he realizes, and he can't see his friend's face but the raised eyebrow is painfully obvious. 

"You alright, little buddy?"

"I'm fine," he says, too quickly to be effective. The look that Acorn gives him is somewhere on the spectrum between 'concerned' and 'unimpressed,' and it itches under his skin. He looks away, feeling uneasy.

A rumble of thunder echoes in the distance - Graham flinches before he can stop himself, the sound taking him by surprise, and hopes a little pathetically that Acorn doesn't notice.

Acorn looks out over the horizon, at the gathering clouds. "Ah," he says, as if he understands perfectly. “That reminds me, I wanted to give you this."

Graham barely has the time to blink before Acorn pushes a swathe of fabric into his hands. It’s a woolen shawl, he realizes as he unfolds it, soft and warm like a hug, a ridiculous affair in rich dark blue. 

_Why is he..._

“It might be a little big on you," continues Acorn - is that nervousness in his voice? "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

Oh. It's a _gift_. Graham winds his fingers into the wool, and tries to ignore the lump forming in his throat. “It's…I..."

He’s hardly at his most eloquent, but Acorn doesn't flinch. “Do you like it? I thought it might help, you know, with the thunderstorms.” His tone takes on a practiced lilt, like he’s quoting from a book. “Soft, warm bedding is essential for helping your squ - _human_ friend feel safe.”

Graham is briefly amused, before his brain catches up with the rest of the sentence. He looks up, suddenly alarmed. "How did you know about the thunderstorms?"

To his credit, Acorn does look a little abashed. "Squirrels are very observant," says Acorn. "Hard for anything to escape their notice. _My_ notice."

That's...mildly terrifying. Graham determinedly doesn't think about the implications, focuses instead on the wool between his fingers. It’s very soft.

“...Thank you,” he says at last, the words feeling rather inadequate for such a thoughtful gift. He’s conscious of Acorn’s gaze on him, and he smiles. "Really. I love it."

Something in Acorn's stance - tense, wound up - relaxes at his words. He looks like he wants to say something, but another crack of thunder interrupts him, and he instead glances at the sky.

"I have to get back home," says Acorn, sounding regretful. "Before the storm starts. Victoria gets terribly frightened by them. Will you…?"

"I'll be fine," he says, faintly embarrassed. Absently, he wonders who Victoria is - knowing Acorn, she’s probably a squirrel. "I can handle myself."

"I know," says Acorn. "Still, take care."

"I will."

"Good," Acorn says, satisfied. He places a hand on Graham's arm - this time careful not to surprise him - and squeezes briefly. Then he nods a goodbye and leaves. 

Graham watches him leave, continues gazing into empty space long after Acorn had disappeared from view. 

-

(At some point he started walking, though he's not sure exactly when. He watches the ground pass under his feet, lost in thought. He can feel where Acorn's scarf sits in the folds of his cloak. 

It’s some time before he looks up again. And when he does, he freezes, because it seems that in some sort of buried instinct his feet carried him directly to Achaka’s well.

He’s not sure he wants to be here. He’s not sure of anything at all. His mood is strange, like he’s stretched thin. Like talking to Acorn somehow leached something out of him.

It’s not a conscious thought that drives him forward, but impulse that has him wandering to the well, that has him gently sitting beside it. His fingers brush against the small brass plaque on the well’s side: installed by his own request, what feels like a decade ago. He traces the engraved letters of respect and remembrance with an absent thumb, and stares up at the overcast sky.

He almost doesn’t notice when it starts to rain, slow and gentle at first, but growing stronger by the minute. Graham leans against the well and watches the small puddles form, feels the water soak into his clothes, listens to the purr of the rainfall in the trees)

~°~

There's a flicker from the edge of the horizon, feeble and diluted - lightning. But It rouses him from his reverie. Half-lost in thought, he gazes at the sky, uncomprehending. 

He shouldn’t be here. He should be home, where it’s warm.

_(Things that help)_

Dazed, he pushes himself to his feet. His hand lingers, briefly, on the edge of the crumbling well. 

Then he's rushing, running. The crash of thunder is as harsh and jagged as tiger's teeth. He flinches at the sound and hastens his pace, almost tripping down the cobblestone paths that lead him home - as if the storm itself were nipping at his heels like a fox, chasing him ever onward. 

-

The castle is, thankfully, not far, and the drawbridge is lowered, with no sign of the moat monster. He darts into the safety of the castle - though not before being careful to wipe his shoes on the doormat. His staff will curse him in the morning, he's sure, if he tracks mud and water into the castle. 

(The trees are beginning to sway in the rising winds, and his hands shake as he wrings the water out of his cloak)

"Sire!" That's No3's voice, as well as her running footsteps, and he looks up just in time to see her skidding into view. "You’re back. That’s good - Number One was starting to get twitchy, and we haven't seen Number Two in _hours_. They'll be glad to see you."

"Sorry," he says, guilt seeping into his already shaky voice. Come to think of it, vanishing in the midst of a storm was probably not his wisest decision. He must have worried the guards tremendously. 

No3 must notice something off in his demeanor, because she stops short. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he says, lying through his teeth. It's a mistake - his tone is too abrupt, too curt. He tries to smooth it over with a smile, though No3 doesn't seem convinced. 

"Perfectly all right, thank you, No3," he says, as cheerfully as he can manage. Which is not very - dripping water all over the floor isn't conducive to good cheer - but he makes an honest effort all the same. 

Of course that's when a rumble of thunder chooses to echo, low and menacing. He tries not to flinch and fails only a little. 

That little, however, seems enough. No3 looks at him, then looks out the window at the brewing storm, and takes a moment to connect the dots. Graham, for his part, freezes, because he can see her putting together the pieces, his bouts of insomnia and his nightmares and the scattered, occasional storms, and those pieces all lead to an inevitable conclusion. 

"...There's a fire set upstairs, Your Majesty," she says through the screeching in his brain. She looks like she dearly wants to say something, but Graham is shivering with the cold and soaked through by the rain, and it's clear that now isn't the time. "And a bath. I'll let the other guards know you're back."

Graham opens his mouth to say something, to stop her, but she's already leaving, footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving him alone with his heart battering in his chest. 

-

The bath chases away the lingering chill of the rainwater; the pajamas are soft and warm. He pulls Acorn's shawl free of his cloak's muddy folds and wraps it around his shoulders, soaking up the comforting warmth. 

His nerves, however, are minimally quelled, and it's with a certain trepidation that he wanders into the study. 

In King Edward's day - before his illness - the king's study used to be stiff, formal, perfectly tidy and neat. After the queen's death, it fell into disuse, dust gathering on any surfaces, spiderwebs weaving in the corners. 

Then, Graham claimed the throne, and the resulting shift was a rapid one. In the first months after that hasty coronation, Graham could barely be dragged out of his office, buried as he was in heaps of decrees and addendums and mandates and edicts and statutes and proclamations. The dusty surfaces and empty desks were promptly filled with towering piles of books, papers, and inkwells as he desperately tried to cram several decades of knowledge into a handful of weeks. 

Back at the Knighthood Academy, exam week used to be living hell. This managed to be worse. More often than not he worked late into the night, falling asleep amongst the veritable mountains of paperwork instead of in his own bed.

As a result, the study was adapted to suit his erratic, stressed schedule. A soft couch was placed by the fire and stocked with blankets, as well as a rocking chair - better than sleeping at his desk, No1 insisted, and Graham privately agreed. And a table was put to harbor tea - somehow the guards seemed convinced that tea was the cure to all ills, and Graham didn't protest. 

These measures aren't really all that useful anymore - his workload has eased, and since those frazzled days he's learned to unwind a little. But the study has remained a partial living room, warm and cozy and inviting.

Today is no different. The fire in the hearth is strong and bright and warm, shadows dancing on the walls. It soothes some of his nerves, thankfully.

Which is when the door bursts open, bouncing off a bookcase. Graham jumps, startled. 

It’s No4. That, by itself, isn’t unusual. What is unusual, however, is the unidentifiable lump of white fur he’s proudly carrying under his arm, like some sort of fluffy trophy. 

Without a single word of explanation, No4 marches over and dumps the lump of fur on the floor. He does so with an enthusiastic flourish that encroaches on a nearby cluttered desk, knocking over a small pile of rejected decrees; they flutter to the ground like so many wounded birds, and Graham watches, bemused, as said lump of fur bleats and sniffs at one of the fallen papers.

He recognizes it, he thinks. That eyepatch, that paper horn, are very familiar. That does little to help his confusion, however.

“Is that Mr. Fancycakes?” Graham asks. Mr. Fancycakes bleats again and temporarily abandons the papers in search of something else to occupy himself with. "What am I saying, of course it is. Why, exactly, are you giving me Mr. Fancycakes?”

“We thought he would be helpful, Sire,” says No4, as if that explains everything, which it very much doesn’t. 

"...Helpful," Graham repeats, bemused. He watches with mild alarm as Mr. Fancycakes sniffs at a corner of the carpet - the goat has a habit of chewing on things that should not be chewed on. 

"Did the Merchant approve this?" he asks, suddenly concerned. The Merchant is protective of his goats and excellent at bearing grudges. If he finds out that the guards absconded with the creature without his say-so, he might not be very forgiving, and a vengeful Merchant is unpredictable at best and unbearable at worst. 

“I think so, Sire,” says No4, insolent in his calm. Graham is reluctantly impressed - it takes a special talent to be _serene_ in an impudent manner, and No4 manages it beautifully. “If that will be all?"

Graham, still reeling, nods. No4 does a stiff sort of salute that somehow exudes impertinence before turning on his heel and walking out the door. Leaving Graham alone with the goat.

Graham stares at Mr. Fancycakes. Mr. Fancycakes, unperturbed, stares back, looking more judgemental than Graham thinks is strictly necessary. He tries vainly to regain some form of composure, treat the situation the way a proper king would - except most kings didn’t have to deal with their guards foisting goats upon them, probably, so he doesn’t have much to work with. 

"If you chew the carpet," he says at last in his most regal voice, "there _will_ be consequences."

Mr. Fancycakes, unimpressed by the words of his monarch, begins to munch on one of the fallen decrees. Graham sighs and wonders when his life went so completely off the rails.

-

Mr. Fancycakes' presence _does_ help, strangely enough. By the time the guards return, he feels a little less on edge, a little less like flying apart at the seams. Maybe it's the distraction of ensuring that the goat doesn't chew on anything _really_ important, or just the fact that he's no longer completely alone. In any case, he's grateful for it. 

It takes around twenty minutes for the guards to arrive. No2 is first to enter, accompanied by a waft of syrupy air; No1 follows close behind, as stiff and proper as ever, the effect slightly spoiled when he nearly trips over Mr. Fancycakes. Then comes No3, and No4 straggles behind, bearing a small tray with five steaming cups of hot cocoa.

"What's the occasion?" he jokes, a little feebly. 

“We were all feeling a bit out of sorts, Sire, due to the storm,” No3 explains, as No4 carefully balances the tray on a nearby towering pile of books. _Due to your disappearance_ are words that hang in the air, unspoken. “We _were_ very worried. And we thought that it might help to be together. Is...is that alright?”

Apparently, No3 has a manipulative streak. Who knew. Still, it’s effective - he’d be disgruntled in any other situation, but he doesn’t even consider saying no.

"That's fine," he says. More than fine, truly. His mumblings don’t make for a good invitation, but the guards don’t seem to mind, beginning to settle in various corners of the room the moment he finishes speaking. 

it's not without incident. He watches with no small amount of amusement as a brief squabble breaks out between No1 and No4 over who gets the rocking chair by the fire. It doesn't last long before No3 loses her patience and breaks up the argument, calling them both ‘children’. In a stunning show of diplomacy she instead claims said chair for herself, shooing her colleagues away with a proprietorial hand.

Thoroughly chastened, No1 sulks in his usual manner - standing stiffly in a corner while looking vaguely pained, as if the world has disappointed him. No4, determined to make the best of things, perches himself on a nearby desk that's littered with stacks of books and papers. One of the stacks topples with a dejected ‘fwump’, scattering pieces of tea-stained parchment on the ground, and Graham can hear No1 make a soft, strangled sort of noise, like a piece of his soul has quietly withered away and died. 

No2, avoiding the squabbles, curls up on the floor close to the fireplace, as close as he dares without burning himself. He seems content enough, but Graham can't help but ask him, slightly concerned: "Are you sure you don't want a chair?"

"Not at all, Your Majesty," says No2 in a chipper tone. "The floor will do nicely. It complements my feelings of inadequacy when faced with a harsh, unfeeling world."

"...Alright. If it makes you happy," he says. Judging by No2’s pleased demeanor, it’s the correct response.

Graham, for his part, settles in a corner of the couch. He feels rather absurdly safe here, snug in the warmth and surrounded by guards. Someone - No1 - hands him a mug of cocoa, and he accepts. In the background, hazy, he can hear what sounds to be a hushed argument between No3 and No4 - bickering again, probably.

Graham leans back, mug cradled in his hands, and listens to them bicker, watches Mr. Fancycakes amble around the room. And he doesn't even flinch when the next grumble of thunder echoes in the distance. 

-

(They don't leave, none of them do, until the storm fades. And it's easier to feel safe, surrounded by friends and a goat, with a mug of cocoa in his hands and the fire flickering in the hearth: the furthest thing from goblin imprisonment he can imagine.

He watches the storm a while, huddled on the couch and facing the window. Thunder growls lowly in the distance, but it doesn't seem as threatening, as sharp toothed as it used to. It drowns out in the background along with the crackle of the fireplace, the howling of the wind. 

At some point he begins to doze, like a cat. Between one blink and the next, Graham falls asleep to the lashing of rain on glass windows. There are no nightmares that night, surprisingly, his sleep utterly dreamless. 

He wakes up early with a crick in his neck, when the air is still crisp, still charged with the passing storm. But he doesn't wake in fear. The embers glow in the ashes of the fireplace, and the shawl is still wrapped around his shoulders, soft and warm and promising safety.

_Things that help_ , Amaya said. He smiles, just a little)


End file.
